Losing Touch
by caffeineaddict13
Summary: Their relationship was a train crash that had surviving passengers, and only they could see the good that remained. Literati, oneshot.


**A/N: **I think I've gotten more cynical.

**Disclaimer: **Nada.

Jess, she said. He snaked his arm around her waist, she shivered unintentionally. What? he whispered into her ear, her smooth hair tickling him and taunting him with the smell of something sweet—cherries.

Nothing. This was how it was with them. She faked what she had to, he listened to what he wanted. They both found meaning in the nothingness that invaded their relationship (and the word love only bounced around their heads).

He slid his hand to the beck of her neck, testing the waters, like he always did. Never careful, just teasing, just fake. Fake. She pushed into him, wanting it to end, the teasing; the apology. He didn't know that she didn't need it. I'm a big girl, she said. I'm not china, Jess.

He nodded, pretending to take in her words, like he always did, _pretending_. Was there any other way? they thought (they didn't know that they knew how).

She kissed him hard, just to prove her point, knocking him off balance, sending him backward onto the empty floor of their empty apartment that housed nothing but silence. He smirked; the only real thing she remembered from how they used to be, how they used to be. Before.

He rolled her over, still being cautious and delicate, not wanting to look into her eyes because they were as beautiful as they had always been. And that's why it hurt so much to see them the way they were now (because everyone knows that sadness makes things prettier).

She pushed him, seeing what he was doing, wanting to hit him, wishing she would. Wishing she would because then he might get it. She wasn't a baby and he wasn't a kid and she hated it when people treated her like that. Especially him.

They made love. Because that was the only way they felt anymore. Because they knew it. Because they weren't seventeen and he wasn't James Dean and she wasn't the Virgin Mary and they weren't sneaking off to make out in the storage room anymore. Because this was their life (and what was so bad was that they had gotten used to it).

&&

_He looked at her and smiled, wanting nothing more than her and him and the moon and stars that he would have given to her if he could have (and he would have)._

"_I love you," she whispered._

_He didn't answer because she already knew._

_Their kisses were sweet and their words were real and they didn't doubt that they had made the right choice. She didn't doubt._

_He kissed the spot behind her ear and she moaned, a sound that was erotic but more beautiful, to him it was light and day because that was what she was, because that was what she was._

"_I love you," she said._

_He didn't answer because she already knew._

&&

Look, she whispered, her skin glowing and pale and her smile realer than it had been in weeks. Look, Jess. Look. He looked (but his eyes weren't the same brown that she remembered).

She was too happy; happier than he remembered her being in so long that she didn't notice that he was trembling—that he was afraid. She didn't notice anything. They didn't notice anything. They didn't notice anything.

The doctor smiled at them, unknowing. He tried to imagine what the doctor was thinking; look at the couple, how sweet. How cute. That's what everyone thought except for the people they had always known, who had always known that this was the way it would go on. She should have listened to him (he should have thought about her instead).

Aren't you proud? the doctor said. She smiled, her hair was damp and he noticed. He had told her that he liked it the way it was in high school, she wore it that way now. He thought that maybe she was too bored to change it again. Because she used to do things if he asked. Because they used to be happy.

Look, she said. Aren't you proud? He nodded because that was what he knew she wanted, and he was too tired and too lazy to change their routine of expecting the expecting, giving only what they need (he thought wrong. They didn't use to be like this).

Jess, she sighed. Bambi eyes, he snickered. But he didn't look because he hadn't, not since things had been this way, and that was longer than he could remember. The apology in his eyes was too much. So she didn't look either.

Jess, look! she yelled. Why aren't you looking? This is us, she said. This is us. He nodded, again, no words were needed, so he didn't give them. Jess, she said, her eyes brimming with tears that he didn't look at because he didn't want to see them. That was how they were. He looked. I know (you're gonna be a daddy, she had said. I know).

&&

"_That one," she said, pointing at a thin paperback lying innocently on a shelf. "That one's yours!"_

_He smirked. "You think I wouldn't have recognized it otherwise?"_

_She bumped his shoulder, sending electricity through both of them, as every touch did. It did not surprise them that it still did._

_She nodded at the man at the register. "My boyfriend wrote that," she said, a look of pure pride on her delicate features._

_The man smiled._

"_My boyfriend wrote that," she said to Jess. "_My _boyfriend."_

_He kissed her. "I know."_

&&

She had her hands on her hips and her cheeks were drying with mascara tracks on them. Fine, she said. He still hated seeing her cry. He didn't know why that was the only thing that had seemed to stick. He didn't remember when the other things had went away (it didn't really matter anyway).

I can't do this, he said. You know that I can't. I would just make things worse. He shook his head because that was all he could do, because that was all there was to do. The aftermath.

She sighed. What was sad to her was that this was the only real thing that had happened in so long. What was sad was that her mother had been right. I'd just make things worse, he said. Worse than this? she wanted to say. But she didn't (because she never did).

He looked at her, wishing that he could still make her weak the way he used to, wishing that she still loved him. Wishing that he could be what she wanted him to, wishing that he didn't still thank heaven every goddamn night that she had even chosen him in the first place. But wishes were for fools. He was no fool.

He paced because there was nothing else to do. She followed his line, her hands had moved to her back, holding her up because her belly had gotten so big that it hurt her to stand. Why now? she said. Why did you have to fucking wait, Jess? Why (he asked the same questions she did)?

He just stared her, for once in what seemed like forever catching her gaze. What he saw was no surprise to him. They were empty, as they had been. He knew because his were the same. He knew because he had seen her flinch at his touch. He knew because.

She shook her head. I'll help you pack, she said. There was no regret or remorse in her words, only finality. The thing was that it had surprised her that it had taken so long (she didn't know that it surprised him, too).

&&

"_Jess!"_ _she yelled, her voice sending spirals of mist into the cold night air, into the snow. "Take it off!"_

"_Just a sec," he said. "Impatient woman."_

"_Not impatient," she said. "Just unaccustomed to having a handkerchief tied over her eyes for so long. It's not the most comfortable position."_

"_Better than handcuffs," he responded, his trademark smirked hidden from her sight._

"_Oh, please," she scoffed. "You've never been arrested and you know it. You're too much of a softie for that."_

_He grinned. "That's what you think."_

_They walked a couple steps in silence, until he spoke again. "We're here."_

_She slipped off the handkerchief and looked at him. "The bridge?"_

"_I couldn't think of any other place," he said. Then he took a small velvet box out of his pocket. "Marry me?" he said._

_She just kissed him in response._

&&

It was right, she said. Lorelai nodded, seeing that her daughter was set. But, she said, you loved him. Things change, Mom. She imagined seeing his response to that. Not that she would have known. He didn't even look at her.

It started with a call. Just one. Always one. It's a girl, she had said. No emotion, just fact. Oh. She imagined his lips forming the syllable—just one. Always one. She looks like you, she told him (oh. Always one, because he didn't think he could give any others).

Slowly, the calls turned more often, from once a year to once a month to once a week so more. Whenever they had time. The emptiness had faded from her voice, she was happy. He didn't go to visit her and she didn't expect him to. That was the way it was with them.

But why? Lorelai asked. You're going to get hurt, she cautioned. She nodded, briskly, businesslike. Probably, she said. Probably. I don't understand, Lorelai said. You wouldn't, she said (probably because she didn't, either).

Eventually the calls started coming less often, because they would forget or because she was busy with the kid or he was busy with her or just because it hurt to much to hear each others voices. Because it only reminded them of failure, because that's what it was. Failure.

Eventually it was just a call at Christmas or a birthday card, eventually just a birthday card because that seemed to be the only date that he couldn't scratch out of his brain, because that was the only date that he never seemed to forget (because it was the only date that had ever mattered).

Sometimes he would remember the blue of her eyes, or they way she used to talk to him when they worked, when they made sense. Sometimes she would remember him snickering at some poor tourist, she would remember the way he used to hold her. Sometimes they think that maybe they could have fixed it.

And when she tells stories to the girl, about him, she tells the good ones. The ones that she chooses to remember. Because sometimes at night she would remember the way he tasted and she would smile and think that maybe, maybe after all it was worth it (because they both knew that it was worth it).


End file.
